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  “Well, baby, I can’t answer that for you. Maybe she just woke up today and said ‘I don’t want to be Jeremy’s girlfriend anymore’. Or, maybe she stewed over breaking up with you for a long time and just didn’t have the guts to do it until today because she knew she wouldn’t have to see you again. Or, maybe she thought you’d change your mind and go to college with her.”

  Ouch. My mom was good at being brutally honest when the situation called for it. I knew one of her scenarios was probably right—or maybe they all were, but it stung hearing someone say it out loud.

  “No matter the reason, though, she is leaving to go to college soon. She’ll be nearly on the other side of the country. Long distant relationships are hard, especially for eighteen year olds.”

  “So, do you think I should have gone with her? To college?”

  “No, baby, that isn’t what I’m saying at all. You made the decision to not go to college, and to not follow her, because that is what your gut told you to do.”

  My mom has always told me when you listen to your gut, or instincts, you tend to make the best decision when it comes to important moments in your life. Listening to your gut, she’d say, was letting your brain do what it did best, logically, and letting your heart assist in guiding that logic with hope, passion and optimism.

  I drop my head and sigh. A brief bolt of panic shoots through my body.

  “I just don’t know what I want to do, Mom. But I do know that I don’t want to sit in a classroom for two years and waste anyone’s money just to drop out because I can’t figure it out, like Mark did. Aunt Maggie spent so much money to send him to school and then he just quit. I don’t want to do that. Plus, I don’t want to move away from you and Aunt Jenna and Aunt Maggie.”

  “Well, let me stop you right there. You know I have told you several times that Jenna, Maggie and I will be fine. You aren’t listening to your gut on this one. Your heart is strong arming your head and invading you with thoughts about not wanting to leave us.”

  I make a feeble attempt at a laugh, “So, what? You gonna kick me out after I graduate?”

  “Of course I’m not going to kick you out. But if you think you are going to graduate from high school and piddle the rest of your teens and your twenties away with us old biddies, you’ve got another thing coming. You are an adult now. It’s time for you to start building pieces of your own life. To focus on you. I’ve done my part and now you have to experience life as a young man should. Be adventurous. Take chances. Have fun. You can start slow and figure things out in time. But you do have to start somewhere or I may just have to put a boot to your butt.”

  She smiles. I know she’d never kick me out of the house. But, I also know she’s right. I can’t live with her forever. I certainly wish I could. Her hand is still resting on mine as we pull into the driveway of the house. I place my other hand on top of hers and squeeze.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, baby boy.”

  ***

  4

  Livy

  Age 17

  “Dammit, Nancy, why do you even care?” I can’t remember how long it’s been since I called her Mom. I first called her Nancy sometime in middle school. She didn’t react or say anything about it so I’ve called her Nancy ever since. Now, I wonder if she even remembers that I am her daughter. She only ever treats me like a free loading tenant.

  “My house, my rules! And as long as I pay the bills around here, you’ll do as I say. And, I say your curfew is ten o’clock!”

  “Whatever, Nancy. It’s not like you’ll be here to check up on me. You’ll be sitting on a bar stool or lying in someone else’s bed passed out by ten o’clock tonight.”

  “What did you say to me, little girl?” Ok, maybe she does remember I’m her daughter. She calls me little girl whenever she wants me to understand who is in charge. Although, she hasn’t really controlled anything I did since I started high school. And little girl is a terrible way to describe me these days. Especially in perspective to Nancy’s build. I’ve got at least seven inches on her petite five foot frame. My shoulders are built like they were designed for a defensive tackle, which I’d happily be if the school would let me play football. And apparently, according to the weirdos around here—who like to put in their two cents worth where pennies aren’t appreciated—I’ve got nice, child bearing hips.

  Translation: I’m not going to be squeezing my ass into Nancy’s size zero jeans anytime soon.

  I highly doubt any man will ever call me his little woman, as I’ve heard so many of Nancy’s boyfriends call her. I’m hardly fat, but I’m no small fry either. Some guy in school said to me once that I had curves in all the right places. But rather than swoon over his words, I rolled my eyes and told him he made me want to vomit.

  Not that I’d want anyone calling me little woman, anyway. I don’t understand why any woman would think that is an endearing phrase.

  “You heard me. What difference does it make what time I come home, Nancy? You won’t be here! I don’t know why you are so adamant about me being here.”

  “I don’t want you running the streets, getting knocked up and shit just so I have another mouth to feed.”

  “Going to a bookstore is hardly running the streets. And not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t just open my legs up for every guy who calls me sweet cheeks and flashes dimples in my direction, like the other people who live in this house!”

  That earned me a slap right across the face. Even though I had the advantage on Nancy in height, she was still able to conjure up enough power in her tiny arm to leave a hand print on my cheek every time.

  I should know better by now, just to keep my mouth shut. But over the years I learned that irrational arguments with Nancy would only ever end if I chose to walk away from the nonsensical yelling and rambling, or if I spoke up and said something that struck a nerve within her, ending in her hitting me.

  Once she hit me, she would shut up and walk away herself. I’d prefer not to get slapped in the face. However, sometimes, Nancy’s ridiculous accusations toward me regarding how I was blossoming into some type of tramp, essentially following in her footsteps, infuriated me like nothing else. I’m nothing like Nancy, not even in the slightest. I’ve never even slept with a guy. Hell, I’ve only kissed two and haven’t gone farther than that.

  Guys around here repulse me. There must be normal guys out there somewhere. Guys who don’t try to pinch your ass before they even know your name. Guys who don’t spread rumors about having sex with girls they’ve never even been alone in a room with. Guys who don’t treat women like pieces of meat.

  Guys like that must exist somewhere because people who write books and make movies create stories about these types of guys all of the time. The ones who are romantic and fight for a girl’s love when it is called for. The guys who would risk life and limb for the girl he loved.

  I’m not saying I want that kind of guy. But I would like to meet someone one day who will actually make eye contact with me when I speak, rather than having his eyes gravitate towards my boobs or my ass. Someone who would like to sit across the dinner table with me and chat while we eat, rather than sit on the same side of the booth and try to grope me and make out with me before the appetizers arrive.

  Someone who isn’t from this God awful town.

  Someone who doesn’t know Nancy.

  Someone who doesn’t know anything about my childhood.

  My face is still stinging. She’s staring at me, waiting for the reaction that she’s always wanted. She wants me to cry. But I won’t. I’m not even sure I can cry. I’ve become so numb to Nancy’s ways that they don’t even affect me emotionally. Except when she tries to compare me to herself. That’ll get me almost every time. I stare at her, motionless. She stares back with fury in her eyes. She hates that I don’t succumb to her physical aggression.

  “I can’t wait until you turn eighteen, little girl. Your ass is so out of here! And I can finally ha
ve this house all to myself again!”

  I don’t respond to her. I want her to leave. I can’t stand being in the same room with her for one more second.

  She finally turns and leaves. I hear her car crank outside and then barrel down the driveway. I sit on my bed and exhale. A tear falls from each of my eyes. Not from pain and not from anything Nancy said or did. It’s from relief. In two weeks I graduate. Three days later, I turn eighteen. Thanks to my perfect GPA, I’ve got college in my sights and paid for with scholarships. As soon as I get that diploma in my hand and my ID can validate that I’m old enough to buy a bus ticket on my own, I’m out of this shit hole and far away from Nancy. She has no idea where I’m going, but I don’t think she’ll even care that I’m gone. I don’t know where I’ll live when I get there. I don’t even know how I’m going to pay for a place to live. But I’ll figure it out. I just want to get the fuck out of here and I’m so relieved that that day is right around the corner.

  ***

  5

  Jeremy

  Age 21

  A shot through the heart

  I did what mom told me to do. I detached myself from her and my aunts slowly. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. After the night Phil Santos had to call my mother to pick me up from jail, I made a promise to my mother to keep looking forward and keep my head level.

  I took a summer job doing framework and remodels with a construction crew. My Aunt Jenna’s boyfriend, Michael, was a general contractor and helped me get the job and showed me the basics. I learned fairly quickly how to swing a hammer, among other things. Toward the end of the summer, I helped Michael organize and lead a crew for two Habitat for Humanity projects. By the beginning of September, I was a pretty savvy carpenter. Michael made the suggestion that if I wanted to escalate my career to a general contractor, like himself, I should take some business classes in the city before I got my license. It wasn’t a requirement, but if I didn’t like the business part of owning my own company, I wouldn’t fully enjoy the other aspects of it either. I really loved carpentry. I enjoyed working with my hands. But, I also really liked the management part of the construction business as well. And, I knew that avenue could take me farther in life than just doing carpentry.

  Not that being a carpenter was a bad job to have. But in the short four months that I worked with a crew, I quickly learned that the physical line of the business was most suitable for young, able-bodied men and women. I only worked with a few people while framing houses that were over the age of forty. And while they probably did still enjoy their jobs, I could tell all the years of manual labor had taken a toll on their bodies.

  Additionally, general contracting would allow me to be my own boss and that sounded very appealing. Michael made sure that he didn’t glamorize his job to me or sugar coat the work load that came with it. He made sure I knew the ugly part of the business as well as the luxuries. He included me in on a lot of his projects and let me shadow him, showing me all of the intricate steps and details that it takes to complete a project. All of the communication that had to be done and all of the multitasking that was required. I quickly understood that if you didn’t juggle everything just right, your business could fall apart before you even got it off the ground.

  I decided to take Michael’s advice and sign up for business classes. He arranged for me to be an apprentice with a business partner of his whose office was located close to campus. It didn’t pay much but it was enough for a small apartment. Plus, my mother put away most of the money from my dad’s life insurance policy into an account that accrued interest for thirteen years. I had plenty to help pay for classes and anything else I might need until I could stand stable with my own income. When I felt like I was at that point a few years later, I had spent less than ten percent of what was in the account. I told my mother she could have it. She refused to take it back. She told me to let it continue to grow and to use it for milestone expenses—an engagement ring, a new house, decorating a nursery. There was no pressure or insinuation behind that, but she thought I might want these things one day, even if I didn’t want them right now.

  Truth be told, I was so focused on being the best damned general contractor I could be, I didn’t think about sharing my time with anyone else very often. I went on a few dates from time to time, but nothing ever stuck to the fridge as my mother would say, referring to how spaghetti noodles stick to the face of the refrigerator door when they are just perfect.

  I lived with my mother through the holidays after I graduated from high school and then moved to the city that January. I began my apprenticeship a week after I moved and classes just a few days after that. After about three months, I went back home to visit my mother. I told her all about everything I was learning in school and at work. She told me that she was so proud of me and that she could tell by the happiness in my eyes that I had followed my gut and had done the right thing. She also reminded me that she once told me how easy it would be to move forward with my life once I figured it out. And, of course, she was right. My eighteen year old self was terrified to be anywhere that my mother wasn’t. But when I decided to move and take classes, it excited me and the fear completely subsided. It’s funny how my mother always seems to know things that I was far from figuring out myself.

  I finished taking all of my classes about six months ago. I didn’t get an actual degree but I learned a great amount about how to run a business from the classes that I took. And with all of the experience I had already under my belt with work, I would have no problem remaining gainfully employed without an official piece of paper declaring my intelligence. Plus, I was planning to be my own boss one day, and as my boss, I didn’t care whether I had a degree. After I finished my classes, the owner of the company I was working for as an apprentice gave me a full time position with a salary and benefits. The job is tough but I look forward to getting up and going to work every day.

  It’s been a particularly long day at work today, so I decide to stop off for a beer before I head home. A friend recommended I hit up a specific bar when I got a chance because they have a beer that I like on tap and it’s close to where I live. He also mentioned something about the place being entertaining or exciting. Enticing? I don’t remember what word he used but he talked it up enough to make me want to try it out.

  Upon arriving at the location, I realize that the building is kind of in a strange area, and although it is not far from my apartment, I’ve never even known it was here. I hesitate for a second and evaluate the credibility of the buddy that suggested coming here. I’m sure it’s fine. How bad could it be? And, if it’s awful, I’ll just leave.

  I open the door and walk in. The room is dark, with mostly only the glow of neon signs and a few televisions illuminating the space. I sit at the bar and pick up the plastic, triangular tent of a beer menu to see what’s on tap. I peruse the options available for a few moments. Just as I spot the beer that I’d like to get, I look up to see the bartender placing a beverage napkin in front of me. My eyes and head motion up from the napkin on the bar, and I slowly take in the person standing in front of me. As I look up, I’m met with the face of what I can only describe as a mixture of delightfully gorgeous and wildly terrifying. Her eyes are the darkest shade of green I think I’ve ever seen. Her smile exists, but it’s only there to appease customers. She’s not genuinely happy to be standing before me, offering me a beverage. If I was an expert at reading faces, which I certainly am not, I’d say what she is really thinking is something along the lines of “what the fucking fuck do you want, fuckface?”. She has no intentions of flirting with me for a good tip.

  She is tall. Her arms are toned. Her hair is long and brown, braided into pigtails which are hanging down the front of her shoulders, nearly half way down her torso. She’s wearing a black t-shirt, with the logo of the bar stamped on the left side of her chest. The sleeves are cut off and the neck is cut into a V, the disrupted thread curled down at the edges. With the V cut, her collarbone is exp
osed and her olive skin is accentuated with a short, silver necklace that has a small clover charm dangling from it. No, it’s a shamrock. A slight, but significant, difference. The charm is so small that you cannot tell what it is at first glance. You have to gaze on it for a moment. I find myself focusing on that particular spot of her skin, where the silver meets her neckline. The sparkle of the jewelry against her skin’s hue is mesmerizing. If she’s paying any attention, she might be thinking that I’m checking out her cleavage. I should probably stop looking there and make some eye contact but I can’t seem to manage to make that small effort. How can jewelry lying on bare skin be so hypnotizing?

  “What can I do you for today?” She speaks and my eyes instantly correct themselves and look her in the face properly. Her voice is low. But not manly low. It’s low like a jazz singer. Bluesy. I wonder if she has a good singing voice. It’s certainly a very beautiful speaking voice.

  As I’m thinking about how her voice might carry a tune melodically well, in a perfectly open acoustical room, with brass and string instruments playing for her in the background, I discover yet another intriguing thing about her. A splendid scent floats across the bar, broadsides me, and my head begins to spin.

  Peaches. A whole orchard of sweet, luscious peaches.

  The combination of her voice, the peaches and the head spinning start to make other parts of my body react without my approval. My heart starts beating uncontrollably and my face begins to flush. My brain shuts off and in such, neglects to remind my lungs on the proper operation of breathing.

  “Cat got your tongue? You want something to drink?” she asks.

  My head wants to move. In any direction. Yes, I want a drink. No, I don’t want a drink.